Nightmare
by Schadenfraude
Summary: Reyson meets a blast from the past. Unfortunately for him, he won't be waking up anytime soon.


Pointless? Perhaps. Funny? Hopefully. Crack-like? Possibly. Scroll down, brave reader.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Fire Emblem. Rather, Fire Emblem owns me.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Surely the fates can't be so cruel.

Am I going insane? Is someone pulling an unimaginably cruel and un-called for prank? It can't be real. It simply can't.

"Ah!" he says as he spreads his arms out towards me. "I see radiance multiplied! What angel visits me in my waking hours?"

I can taste my breakfast in the back of my throat.

It's Oliver.

Quickly, I turn and pretend I don't notice him. Before I realize it, I'm flat out running.

When did Oliver come back from the dead? No, that's impossible. Had he been alive for all this time? I shudder to think of him and his portly girth crouching in the shadows as he waited for a chance to strike. If he ever lost his balance and fell on his back, I'm sure he'd have trouble getting to his feet like the fat, pompous turtle that he is.

Suddenly, I run into someone. We both tumble to the ground in a mess of feathers. It's Rafiel.

He shakes his head to clear it and picks a twig out of his hair. "Reyson? What's the hurry?"

I decide to keep it brief. "I'm running."

Rafiel smiles. "I see. You're exercising! Quite a fine idea. I should try it myself."

Before I can clear up the misunderstanding, I hear the shuffling footsteps of a man who can barely walk for his balloon-like body. If nothing else, Oliver was a persistent man.

Looking around, I spot the supply tent. Grabbing a confused Rafiel by the sleeve, I run behind it.

As I fold my wings flat against my back and try to even out my breathing, Oliver pants like a wyvern. I can hear him all the way from here and it's almost like he's breathing down my neck. I shudder at that thought.

Rafiel stares at me again. "Why are we--"

I shush him before he can say another word. Thankfully, I can hear Oliver leaving as he shuffles away, still panting heavily.

Rafiel turns to me and asks, "That was Duke Tanas, was it not? Were you running from him?"

"Yes!" I exclaim. "How did he sneak into the camp? Surely someone spotted him, he's the size of a house!"

Rafiel raises an eyebrow and says, "Sneaking in? But he joined us a while ago in fighting against the Senate. He is a part of the army."

"Exactly! He is..." But then I pause. Did Rafiel just say what I think he just said?

Hell is freezing beneath my feet.

**ooooo**

As far as beorc go, Oliver is among the lowest of the low. He's fat, he's repulsive, and he has this way of leering at you with his beady eyes that makes you feel as though he's running his clammy blubber hands all over you. He and I have, as much as I hate to say it, a history of sorts.

And so, I find myself in the general's tent.

"I need to speak with Ike."

Soren doesn't look up from writing the battle report. I suspect that he is ignoring me. He has never been easy to get along with but I decide to try again for the sake of my sanity. As it happens, I like being sane.

"I said, I need to speak with Ike."

Soren turns his head up to look at me with an irritated glare. Sitting up straight, he speaks to me in a matter-of-fact tone as though I should already be aware of what he is about to say. "Ike's busy. He has things to do and does not have time to wander around chatting, unlike certain others. If you would be so kind as to leave, it would be much appreciated."

I sigh. Ike is the commander so despite however much I dislike Soren, I know he's not lying when he says Ike is busy.

"Could you inform me as soon as he's free?" I ask.

"You think the tactician has the free time to be your personal messenger?" he says. "Check for yourself, prince."

Somehow, Soren manages to make my title sound like an insult.

Before anything could happen, Ike enters the tent.

"Hey," he says. "Just finished talking with Skrimir. With him, everything goes in one ear and out the other. He thinks arm-wrestling with the enemy commander will win us the next battle. Something about how 'the shame of a man who is defeated in non-lethal combat will forever haunt his living days'. I don't know how Ranulf manages."

I spring at the chance to speak with Ike. "Could I talk to you?" I ask.

"Sure," he says. "What do you need to talk about?"

I take a deep breath. "Did you really recruit Oliver into the army?"

"Oh. That." Ike looks from side to side and clears his throat. He suddenly develops a great interest in his thumbs. "Um, listen, he kind of just... invited himself when he saw Rafiel. He started killing off his own men. Then he followed us back to camp. Like a stray puppy."

A puppy, of all things. Do beorc always come up with the most absurd analogies? I sigh and ask, "What were you thinking when you let him stay?"

Soren says, "I suggested we let him stay. He's a valuable asset to the army."

My jaw drops. "What? Valuable asset? _Valuable_! He's nothing more than pig's lard!"

"He's pig's lard that's proficient with staves," replies Soren with a well-practiced glare. "You underestimate our need for troops capable of fighting. I certainly don't see _you_ wielding any staves or light tomes."

Soren is calm and collected just like he always is. Just looking at his shut-up-I'm-right face makes my fist twitch. If I punch a skinny little beorc like him, it's likely that only a few of the bones in my hand would break. I just have to decide if it's worth a trip to the infirmary and an explanation to Tibarn.

Ike steps in between us before the sparks fly. "Listen," he says to me, "I'm sorry. I know how you feel about Oliver, but he's pretty harmless and he's good with a Light tome. He hasn't tried to hurt anyone on our side and he's kind of... erm..."

"Senile," says Soren.

"Yeah, senile. You should have seen him. He shut himself in his tent all day with one of Rafiel's feathers."

I repeat the words slowly to make sure there isn't any sort of misunderstanding between us. "Harmless?" I say. My quiet tone makes Ike take a step back. "Senile? Shut himself in a tent with my brother's feather? Have you considered what would happen if such a depraved madman were ever to get his grubby, malformed excuses for sausage sticks he calls fingers on my siblings and I?"

Soren scoffs at me and rolls his eyes. "Of course it's about you. It's always about you."

Ike has the sense to hold me back from hurting both Soren and myself. I don't recall having calmed down. I suppose I must have if I never had the chance to feel the satisfaction of imprinting my knuckles into Soren's scrawny little face.

**ooooo**

We reached a compromise of sorts. Oliver's tent is never to be near mine. Or Rafiel and Leanne's, for that matter. If he so much as harms a hair on our heads, we have the right to boil him alive, quarter him, and feed the pieces to the dogs and hope they don't choke and die. At least, that's what I wanted. I grudgingly accepted that he would merely be expelled from the army.

Leanne pulls gently at my sleeve. "Something... not right?" she asks in the New Tongue. She likes the practice, I suppose, so I use it to speak to her as well.

We're in the outskirts of camp where I usually stroll around the greenery to spend some time with Leanne among the leafy foliage of bushes and trees. I consider it our brother-sister time together. Nature has always had a soothing effect on me, something that would help at this moment.

"It's nothing," I assure Leanne. "I'm just a little worried. Don't... don't stray off with any balloon-beorc, all right?"

"Balloon?" she repeats with a tilt of her head.

"Yes, a beorc fat like a balloon fit to burst. Like this."

I imitate Oliver's waddle of a gait by walking with my legs far apart and making a circle with my arms to mimic a wobbling mass of stomach tissues. To complete the image, I blow up my cheeks and try to be as red-faced as possible.

Leanne laughs and claps her hands. "Funny man, funny man!" she exclaims.

I relax from my Oliver impersonation. It's not easy pretending to be overweight, balding, and deprived of meaningful existence in life. "I suppose he could be considered funny," I mutter. I look up at Leanne but then I notice she's staring at something behind me.

"Leanne?" I ask. I turn around.

Unseemly moustache, ostentatious taste in clothing, grubby claws and watermelon-stomach. "Oho!" garbles Oliver. As always, I'm surprised anew. There's actually room for vocal chords in all that fat.

Oliver takes a step towards us which I note grimly. "What visions of loveliness!" he says with a fluorish of his grimy hand. "I see before me perfection embodied in glorious white and gold!"

"We're leaving," I hiss to Leanne. I grab her arm but she stares back at me, confused. "He's dangerous," I tell her.

"But he will not harm," she says.

I sigh and remember she never had the chance to have the honour of being acquainted with Oliver's obsession with laguz trophy slaves. Ike had made sure to keep her safe in what was supposed to be the last battle against him.

Suddenly, I hear a dull thud. Quickly, I spin around and make sure to keep Leanne behind me. Whatever trick he has up his sleeve, I won't let him touch my little sister. I swear, if he thinks he can--

Is he kneeling?

Oliver's down on one knee, one hand placed on his thick, heaving chest and another reaching towards me like some deluded suitor caught up in an outlandish romance. I hope he doesn't entertain any thoughts of me reciprocating. I would sooner have my hand chopped off than touch him.

"I would be ashamed to raise my head in your presence!" he declares.

Leanne steps out from behind me. She gestures towards Oliver and says, "No harm. He not want to harm. He... okay."

I protest, of course. "Leanne, you don't know him. You don't know what he's done. He--"

"Nothing bad in mind," she assures me. "You look."

Me? Probing through his fat little head? "I'll take your word for it," I mutter.

"_Angels_!" I wince at Oliver's loud voice. I'd almost forgotten he was there behind me. "You could be naught but angels! Your hair, like soft liquid light of origins celestial! What divine entity has the tremendous skill to craft these strands of spun gold, soft like daybreak's ethereal kiss? Lo and behold the radiance of each auriferous lock, its brilliance multiplied by the jealous sun who cannot hope to attain your unparalleled splendour!"

I'm ready to strangle him with my auriferous locks if that's what it will take to shut him up. Leanne, on the other hand, is giggling and clapping. "Funny man!" she exclaims.

"_Exquisite_!" cries out Oliver. I wince again. That man needs an off button. "How luscious! Matchless opulence for the eye!"

I cringe at the sight of his sagging double chin jiggling with every warbled syllable. Leanne, however, actually seems to like listening to him. "Funny man!" she says with a giggle. "Funny words!"

I make a mental note to get Leanne a dictionary. If she wants to hear funny words, she can read them instead of listening to some grease bucket with a mouth.

But Leanne seems to have other plans. She starts walking towards Oliver.

"Leanne?" I say with my throat suddenly dry.

I never believed that time could slow down but some higher power has seen fit to drag out this moment for my benefit and viewing pleasure. Little Leanne's fingers reach through the air towards Oliver's hand where they'll likely be crushed by his meaty grip. He's still kneeling there and looking very much like a fat toad dressed in purple silks. What horrible taste, comes the thought as I watch Leanne's slender, pale fingers land in the waiting palm of his hand.

Before I could get my body to respond, Oliver's little eyes have lit up and Leanne smiles brightly. I feel dizzy at the sight, perhaps righteously nauseous. There's Oliver, on one knee that's barely suited to supporting his weight with my baby sister's hand in his, an action she will never be able to take back and a sight that will haunt me for many sleepless nights to come.

In an exaggerated display of gentleness, Oliver holds Leanne's hand between his thumb and index finger. To my horror, Leanne blushes and giggles as a sign that I need to do something about her taste in men.

"What praises might I sing of your alabaster complexion?" says Oliver. He lifts her hand, thankfully not to his slobbery lips, but to the sky like it's some object of worship. "A thousand panegyrics would not suffice! Mountains would quiver and sigh at your marmoreal touch. Why, you would put the finest ivory to shame and the softest velour would be scabrous by compare!"

He goes on and on and on about her emerald orbs that are like a lush verdant forest made into twin crystalline masterpieces, her mellifluous voice that is like the playful gurgle of a ebullient river, her clothes that seemingly float with the airiness of feathery, downy clouds, and the way the hedonistic earth doesn't deserve the demure touch of her doe-like footsteps skimming across it in an innocent, chaste dance like a feather in the wind.

Good grief. Everything sounds like a bad pick-up line. If Leanne understood what he said, I'm sure she wouldn't be nodding along and giggling like she is right now.

Eventually, he ran out of compliments to extol upon her pearly white wings that are iridescent in brilliant shades of opal white. I suppose the strong grip I had on his collar and the impressive glare I had long ago learned from Tibarn helped.

"Listen here, human," I hiss into his face. "You've had your fun, all right? Stop harrassing my sister or I'll make sure you regret ever being born."

"But certainly!" he says with a cooperative nod. "I would not want to overwhelm the fair dove!"

Oliver slips out of my grasp and steps back so he is in no way shape or form touching Leanne. I do nothing but blink for a moment. "I'll be off!" says Oliver with a wave of his hand.

I stare in disbelief. I was expecting obstinance. An obsessive-compulsive disorder. A fit of lunacy. Perhaps some form of answer resembling a "no". This was the man who had tried to lock me up for the rest of my life in his villa and had been willing to exhaust all his resources doing so.

Has he changed?

Leanne eagerly waves back as Oliver waddles back to camp. She points in his general direction and says, "Funny man! I want see him again!"

I take a dry, rasping swallow. My dear little sister is happily anticipating another chance to speak with Oliver and be in his company. Whether Oliver is a changed man or not, I can only draw one conclusion from this.

I've failed as a big brother.

**ooooo**

When I trudged back to camp, I noticed a small, chatting crowd around one of the larger tents. Ike stood there scratching his chin.

I walk up to him through the crowd. "Ike? What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, Ike stares at me. I glare back. "What's so interesting?"

Ike snaps out of it. "Oh, sorry, Reyson. It's just that Oliver locked himself up in his tent again..." Before long, Ike slips into a pensive stare again and starts mumbling. "Rafiel's? But he's been out with Nailah since lunch, and it's too wavy to be yours... so I guess..."

I sigh and cross my arms. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Perhaps Ike needs to see someone about his problem with thumbs. "Well..."

"Out with it."

Ike clears his throat and slowly says, "Oliver shut himself in his tent with a clipping of hair..."

Perhaps I'm too predictable. Ike stops me before I can even touch Oliver's tent much less tear it down and give him a sorely-needed and overdue punch in his no-good oily face.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

So... have I converted anyone to the ways of OliverLeanne? ... No? (is shot)

I don't do first person very often so I'm not sure if I did this right. This is a cotton candy fic ie. little to no substance. Nevertheless, it was fun to write and I hope I was able to get a laugh out of everyone. Please review (or not) as you see fit. As always, crit, opinions and comments are very welcome.


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